A wise teacher said: “Every mark on your draft is a gift.” When I first heard this, it felt like an attempt to soften the blow of a heavily annotated manuscript. But over the years, I’ve seen the truth in those words. Genuine, honest, generous feedback is not a correction of who we are. It is an invitation to become better.
Much of my adult life has been spent writing, revising, teaching, speaking, and learning. Some days, the pen is my instrument; other days, it’s my ears. Whether I offer or receive feedback, one thing remains constant: it has become a deeply spiritual experience.
Feedback as Grace
Something is humbling about letting your work go—placing it before another and saying, “Tell me what you see.” It is a vulnerable act, a quiet surrender of control, and might often be uncomfortable. Yet, in that space of vulnerability, grace enters.
The red marks of a reviewer’s pen, once a source of anxiety, have become, for me, a kind of spiritual direction. They guide not just toward clearer arguments but toward deeper listening. They are, in their way, whispers of grace.
Not all feedback is perfect, but almost all have something to teach. And those who listen deeply are often surprised by the joy of improving.
I recall revising a recent article for the Jesuit Higher Education journal. I had poured hours into crafting it carefully. Then came the reviewer’s comments—clear, specific, bold, and correct. They revealed what I had missed and, more importantly, what the piece could become. Their insight gave me what I didn’t think about. The article grew stronger, deeper, and more grounded.
As I proofread the final draft at 4:30 AM on Holy Thursday—just before entering the sacred silence of the Triduum—I couldn’t help but see the connection. Feedback is a kind of foot washing. Often unnoticed, it’s a hidden service that helps another stand more prepared to move forward. And like Peter in the Gospel, receiving it requires letting go of pride. It means being willing to be washed.
A Sacred Dialogue
I’ve always seen myself as a lifelong learner. I learn from children and elders, friends and critics, nature and silence, failure and beauty. Feedback belongs among these teachers. It is part of the sacred dialogue between the self and the world.
At its best, feedback is not criticism; it is accompaniment. It walks alongside you, notices what you’ve overlooked, and says, “Look again.” It holds a mirror—not to shame, but to sharpen. Not to diminish, but to deepen.
Feedback, then, is a form of communion. I do not write in isolation. I write within a web of relationships—with thinkers, teachers, editors, and readers, many of whom I’ll never meet. Feedback makes these invisible connections visible. It reminds me that what I write doesn’t belong solely to me—it belongs to a larger body of knowledge, a wider communion of learners. It awakens my awareness that I live—and write—in relation to others.
Writing as Stewardship
There’s a stewardship dimension here. Every gift must be nurtured, refined, and offered back. Writing, for me, is one such gift. So is the way I live and show up in the world. Feedback helps me honor those gifts.
In writing, feedback reminds me to take the work seriously—not just for precision’s sake, but out of respect for those who will read it. It calls me to honor their time, dignity, and attention. It helps me see what I might otherwise ignore and moves me from good to better, unclear to precise, self-centered to others-focused.
Listening with the Ear of the Heart
Saint Benedict wrote that we must listen with the ear of the heart. That’s what feedback requires—not just hearing but receiving. Not defending, but being open to grace. This kind of listening is slow, prayerful, and honest. It’s the listening that changes us.
I’ve learned not to take feedback personally but to take it seriously. Every comment is a door. Some I walk through. Others I leave closed. But I knock on each one before moving on. In doing so, I’ve discovered something surprising: feedback doesn’t just improve my writing. It refines me—making me more patient, attentive, and attuned to what truly matters.
A Spiritual Practice
Beyond being the practice of skill development, feedback is a spiritual exercise. A sacrament of humility and a rhythm of revision and grace. It reminds me that growth is never solitary, that the best work is collaborative, and that there can be love even in critique.
I say “thank you” to all who have offered me feedback—whether kind or challenging, gentle or firm. You’ve helped me hear more clearly, think more deeply, write more faithfully, and live more attentively.
And to those of us who offer feedback to others: may we do so not with the pen of judgment but with the hand of service. Like Christ at the table on Holy Thursday, may our feedback be an act of quiet love—so another may walk more freely, truthfully, and alive.
